“Half,” Berthold said. “Be quiet. I think I hear something.”
They stood there for an unmeasured time, shielded in the entryway. An owl hooted in the woods beyond, and a wolf howled. A moment later another wolf answered, then another, but they were distant and of no concern to the trio. The breeze was slight, felt not at all next to the door, but it rustled clumps of dead grass and knocked together the smallest branches of the tall evergreens. The scrubland darkened for a moment, as clouds scudded across the face of the moon. Then everything was bright again, and Berthold pulled back from the door.
“I hear footsteps. Heavy, certainly not human.”
“I could have told you that, thief,” Ingrge said. “A troll, from the sounds of it."
The thief raised an eyebrow. “Well, he’s gone now. He was near the door, though, as I heard him breathing."
“I could have told you that, too.”
"Just open the door, Bert.” Yevele tapped her foot impatiently.
“It’s locked,” Ingrge said. “I already tried the knob.”
“Lovely,” Berthold said. He nudged the elf a little farther away and knelt at the latch, exploring it with his fingers, as the moonlight didn’t reach far enough into the entry way. There was a keyhole beneath a knob that was in the shape of an animal’s head, a wolf or a dog from the feel of it, something set in the animal’s eyes. Worked gems perhaps, or polished stones. “Don’t like this.” It felt as if the stones could depress. “Not at all.”
Yevele tried to see through the shadows to figure out what he was doing. She didn’t say anything, but her foot kept tapping. Ingrge risked sticking his head out of the entranceway and looking up. More clouds drifted past the moon, and the silhouette of a large bird cut across. He pulled his head back in when Yevele tugged on him.
Berthold extracted the largest of his picks and set to work on the keyhole. At the same time, he pressed his ear to the crack in the door, listening for the heavy footfalls. Having heard the tumblers in the lock click one by one, he was certain he’d defeated it, so he replaced the pick and put the pouch of tools back in his pocket. With one hand he pressed in the eyes of the doorknob and turned the handle. Then he held his breath and opened the door an inch.
He was listening again when the elf nudged the door open wider. “I don’t hear anything,” he whispered. Ingrge slid inside, followed by Yevele. Berthold followed uneasily.
They stood in a grand round room lit by torches that gave off light, but no smoke. The wood seemed not to char away, and each torch’s flames flickered in unison. On the center of the floor was a round rug, blood red and shot through with thick shiny black threads that on first inspection had no pattern to them.
“Do not step on the rug,” Berthold cautioned. “There’s something not quite right about it.”
“Something not right about all of this place,” Ingrge quietly returned. “Didn’t like it the first time I was here. The rug wasn’t here then, at least . . . not this rug.”
Berthold crept carefully into the room and stood at the edge of the disputed rug. He stared at it, seeing the black threads twist and turn almost imperceptibly. “Snakes,” he whispered. "Someone’s trapped snakes inside it. Just don’t step on it. Whatever you do.” He stared at the elf when he said this, not looking away until Ingrge nodded.
Then Berthold carefully studied the rest of the room. It stretched above the torchlight, and so he couldn’t see the ceiling. A narrow staircase spiraled up, and two doors were across from the stairway, the same black wood as the entry. The air smelled of cinnamon and something chemical that reminded Berthold of an autopsy room he’d been in during a case back in Bowling Green. The torches didn’t seem to give off an odor, so he wondered where the other smells were coming from. He walked around the outside of the carpet, noting that the thick black threads quivered and seemed to follow his course.
"We’d only went up when we were here.’’ Ingrge surveyed the staircase. “Never bothered to look inside those doors here. One must lead down.”
“Lovely place this is,” Berthold whispered. “I think — ” He held a finger to his lips and cocked his head. A “throoming" sound came from overhead, a troll or something equally as big walking. He motioned to the nearest door, put his ear to it, and gently turned the knob when he didn’t hear anything on the other side.
The three of them went through, just as the “throoming” came down the stairs. Berthold quietly closed the door behind them and remained there, ear pressed to the crack, breath held.
“Can’t see anything in here," Ingrge whispered. “But I smell . . .”
“Lots of things,” Yevele answered. “It stinks in here. As bad as that dragon’s cave.”
In addition to scents of cinnamon and a chemical that might have been embalming fluid or a strong antiseptic, there was the musky scent of burrowing animals.
The "throoming” grew louder, regular like a guardsman’s pace. It stopped once, and they guessed the troll was at the front door. Then it stopped twice more, likely at each of the other inner doors. A few minutes more and the footsteps boomed up the steps and faded to nothingness. Suddenly a soft light came on, and Berthold saw that Ingrge had lit a candle.
“By all that’s holy,” the elf breathed.
The room contained a menagerie. Cages stacked four high lined the walls, each one filled with a creature, and each creature eerily silent. There were squirrels and rabbits, cat-like things and possums, all looking just a little . . . wrong. One rabbit had a small horn protruding from its head. A possum had four eyes, set on its head so that looking at the creature made the observer dizzy. There was a constrictor with two heads and three tails, and a lizard with furry patches on its leathery hide. A black and white wingless bird had an orange circular mark on its neck that looked like a miniature sunburst. A bulldog had saggy jowls, and lines of olive-green drool spilled from them. And in the top cage nearest the door was a small dragon-like creature with green and purple mottled scales.
“Alfreeta,” Ingrge cried.
The creature came to the front of its cage, eyes that were once dull sparkling with recognition.
“That's Naile’s friend,” Ingrge told Berthold. “Naile thought she’d flittered away to be with her own kind.”
“The creatures in here aren’t anyone or anything’s ‘kind,’ ” the thief returned. “This is like a . . .”
“Wizard’s laboratory,” Yevele supplied.
“A mad one.” This burst hotly from the elf. He started talking to Alfreeta, in the musical elven tongue.
Alfreeta’s mouth moved in reply, her tongue snaking out and dancing in the air, the air shimmering around it. But no sound came out.
“She’s magic,” the elf said. “She bonded herself to Naile, a relationship similar to a dog and a boy, but much more. Something held her here, some enchantment that also keeps all these creatures dumb. Else she’d be well away from this tower and perched on Naile’s shoulder.”
“How’d she get caught?” Berthold was standing in front of the cage, neck craned so he could get a better look at Alfreeta.
Ingrge shrugged. “She was with us all the way through the woods and on the road to the city. We stopped for the night, just a few miles out, and in the morning she was gone.”
“So something lured her away.” The thief scratched his chin. “Something truly does not like the lot of you. Good thing I got rid of those bracelets.” He didn’t see Yevele’s glare, nor see her mouth the words: but not Milo and Nailed bracelets.
“Can you get her out? I could boost you up.” Ingrge pointed to the silver latch on the cage.
“Doesn’t look locked, but that doesn’t mean it’s not spell-locked.” The thief was thoroughly engrossed in the room and didn’t hear the “throoming” coming down the steps again. “I can defeat magic contraptions, you know. I managed Keth’s bracelet, your bracelets and—” The elf clapped his hand over Berthold’s mouth. Yevele extinguished the candle.
The unseen
sentry stopped again at the front door, moved on in pattern outside of this one and the next. Then the “throoming” circled the room once more and went back up the steps. Yevele relit the candle.
The thief was sweating. “1 . . . yeah, I think I can get her out. But should I?”
Ingrge looked puzzled by the question.
“No need alerting someone. Maybe opening the cages will set off some sort of alarm. And, besides, we need to tree the wizard. Maybe the little dragon will get in the way, could be a problem. You said she’s bonded to Naile. Well, she’s not bonded to us.”
“He could be right.” Yevele was chewing on the words, as if she found it distasteful to agree with the thief. "We’ve been through the upper levels, Ingrge. Maybe we should find the way down. Maybe we should find the wizard, then get all of us, and Alfreeta, out of here.”
Ingrge knew the little dragon could understand them, but he explained it all again in his lyrical tongue, adding that Naile was safe and guarding a caravan, that they all would be reunited soon. He didn’t add that hopefully they would all be back to their respective homes, he to Florida; Naile to New York. Which would leave Naile and Alfreeta farther apart than ever.
Forty-two dtepd, Ingrge thought. He forced his mind to remember it was fifty-seven to the sea. But what was his handle?
“We will be back for you,” the elf finished, shaking off his scant thoughts of home. Then he extinguished the light and led them to another door.
“Let me check that,” Berthold said. But the thief wasn’t fast enough.
Ingrge turned the knob and opened the door, hoping to find a staircase that would lead to the depths of the tower. Instead, he found a scythe-like blade slice down and cut off his arm.
Tattoos And Visions
It was midafternoon before the bodies of the merchants and the guards, and the one villager who’d been killed had been buried in the town cemetery. The dead bandits were buried in a mass grave north of Hart.
A few horses had been rounded up, but not enough to pull all of the wagons, and neither were there any available in town. One of the cheesemaker’s guards had ridden south with the coins from the shoemaker’s wagon and other contributions in the hopes of purchasing more horses. If and when enough horses arrived, the caravan would be turning around and going back to the city.
The two surviving Glothorio priests said prayers for the dead and consecrated the ground, not asking for a single coin for their efforts. They now sat on one of Ludlow Jade’s blankets, in the shadow of their battered wagon. Naile and Milo knelt in the grass, the dozen pouches that had been taken from the bandits emptied, and the coins stacked up in precise rows.
“Forty-eight gold coins,” Milo pronounced. “One hundred and
eleven silvers and two half-coppers. I figure that should be enough to buy some of your magic.”
The two priests quietly regarded him for several moments before replying. The tallest was the one who’d been in charge, and only one tattoo remained, this a foreign-looking alphabet on his neck. The
younger priest, a man Milo guessed to be in his late teens, had tattoos
dotting his head and his left forearm. All the others had been used up between the battle with the undead and with the archers.
“More than enough,” the tall priest decided. He was the one who earlier told Milo that divining magic was his specialty and that questions and mysteries swirled around the two men. He was also the one who’d declined to help until they had gathered enough coins to meet the price his god demanded for their spells.
“What do you wish to know. ...”
“Milo Jagon."
“And Naile Fangtooth.”
The priest nodded to each. “Pity that I had not learned your names before this juncture. “I am Brother Beauregaard, and this is Brother Reed.” The young priest smiled. “Now, what is it you wish me to divine?”
“Where to begin?” Naile rocked back and tipped his face to the sky. “We need a lot of information. We need — ”
“I’ll ask the questions,” Milo cut in. “I got the money after all.’’ He sat cross-legged, his elbows on his knees. His chainmail shirt was laying next to him. He’d taken it off when he helped bury the bodies, finding it heavy and unnecessary.
He told them everything Berthold had revealed, about the wizard held in Quag Keep, about how they were magically summoned to this world. He’d considered holding some of that back, not wanting anyone to know they weren’t “from around here.” But he decided to put his trust in the Coin Gatherers, and hoped spilling everything would get them more accurate information.
Brother Beauregaard leaned forward and took four gold coins off the stack, and three silvers. He closed his eyes and drew his chin down to touch his breastbone. At the same time, he held his arms high and began moving his fingers. To Milo he looked like the conductor of some symphony, signaling the brass and the woodwinds to join in. The priest cocked his head now, as if he was indeed listening to some great opus, then he grimaced, and the tattoo on his neck detached itself and hovered in the space between he and Milo. There was a red welt where the tattoo had been, and Milo realized it must be painful for the priests to use this magic. But the welt disappeared, leaving the flesh unblemished and ready to receive another tattoo.
Around them the air grew hazy and motes of gray and silver lights winked on and off where the tattoo floated. It unwound itself, looking like a ribbon now, and it wove its way among the motes.
“Something wards what you seek," Brother Beauregaard said. He brought one arm down and tugged at the cord at the V neck of his robe. There were more tattoos on his chest, and as he gestured two of them pulled free to join the floating ribbon. Milo thought the undead battle had all but stripped the priest of his magic. Was the man’s entire body covered with the arcane marks? Then the priest’s hand stretched out to the coin pile and took several more gold pieces. “Magic has a price,” he said by way of explanation.
Milo didn’t care, he was caught up in the spell that had grown to fill the air between him and the priest. The two additional tattoos stretched and soon looked like ribbons, too. They tied and untied themselves, cavorted like wriggling worms. Then in a flash they were gone. In their place hung the haggard-looking face of an old, old man.
His skin looked so deeply wrinkled it might well have been tree bark, and it was practically that color. But it was tinged gray, as if the man was unhealthy. Heavy dark circles ringed the eyes, adding to the worn appearance. The eyes were shiny, though, not looking at all like they belonged to an old man. And they were a dark purple flecked with slivers of amber.
There were no eyebrows, just bony ridges where eyebrows should be. And he had a high forehead that sloped back. A thick mass of silvery hair spilled down over slumped shoulders, straight until near the ends, which curled and undulated in a nonexistent wind. The figure had a beard and a mustache, both a few shades darker than the hair, all of it unkempt and dotted with the husks of insects and with specks of dirt. His mouth, difficult to see for all the hair, was small, and the lips cracked.
“I am Jalafar-rula,” the image said. “ Jalafar-rula of Stonehenge. And I called you here.” His voice was weak, yet it had a sense of power about it. “It is I who summoned you to this land.”
“Jalafar-rula is indeed a great wizard,” Brother Reed supplied. “I have read of him. He is old. Very. So old I thought him certainly dead.”
Brother Beauregard nudged the young priest.
“Sorry.” Brother Reed bent his head and lolded his hands in his lap. “1 did not mean to interrupt.”
The image of the wizard glowed a little brighter. “I sent for you, Milo Jagon and Naile Fangtooth. You and more than a dozen others. Pulled you from Earth and brought you here. ”
“Why?” asked Naile, shifting a little to directly face the image. “Why us? Why bring anyone here? And . . . just where is here?"
It was long minutes before the image answered. “I foresaw my capture, Naile Fangtooth, and so
I created nearly two dozen miniature warriors, thieves, and sorcerer figures—in the event my capture truly came about. Miniatures, of the kind you use to represent characters in your game.”
“Our game?” The disbelief was thick in Milo’s voice. “You summoned us because we’re gamers? ”
“I needed the miniatures to be discovered by those you call ‘gamers.’ Each person grasping one of the miniatures would be pulled here. Part of an elaborate calling spell capable of breaching dimensions.” The wizard seemed quite pleased with himself, and a bit of the fatigue vanished from his face. “I needed your kind because you have such rich imaginations. You crave fantasy. You dream of knights and dragons. And, deep down, many of you believe that magic really exists.”
“Not in our world," Milo said. “Here maybe, but — ”
Brother Reed reached over and pulled more coins from the stacks as Brother Beauregaard added another tattoo to keep the enchantment going.
“Yes, in your world.” Jalafar-rula’s eyes seemed to grow larger and brighter. “A very long time ago the pulse ol magic was strong and fast on Earth. Stronger there than it is here.”
“Stonehenge. You said you are Jalafar-rula of Stonehenge.” Naile seemed in awe of the image and the magic that birthed it. “Stonehenge in England."
“The same. I had it built when your world was quite a bit younger, and I was younger, too.” The image sighed, shoulders slumping more and head lowering until he looked more than a bit like a turtle with his lace protruding from a shell. “ But there’s not much of Stonehenge left, just rocks and ruins. Not much left of me, either. Not in Pobe’s clutches in any event.”
“So what happened to the magic? On Earth?” Naile pressed. “Magic ran like rivers through the ground. You could breathe it in the air.”
“But what happened?” This from Milo. He was growing impatient, and fearing that the wizard would not get his tale told before all of the coins disappeared.
“Pobe happened. Called the Dark One or the Darkness by my brethren and the powers of this place. He is a creature of this world who grew more powerful and learned from the wizards of this realm that there were layers of dimensions. Earth is one. Not able to take over this land, at least not completely because the wizards here were in good number, he still found a way to touch your world. Nestled safely in the arcane richness of this place, not draining a drop of the magic here.” Jalafar-rula’s expression showed that there were things he was not telling. “He and his minions began siphoning the magic from your world. Pobe feeds on magic. He needs it to survive.”
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